The Cripple Code
by HifaLootin
Summary: AU: House meets Chase as a clinic patient with an intriguing disability, and soon he's ensnared in a game he may not be running. Someone's going to get hurt. HouseChase, with a side of Wilson.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: I wrote this using the prompt _"Chase has a handicap. He goes into the clinic and meets House, where, upon finding that Chase intrigues him, decides to pursue him." _Fics with a hurt or disabled Chase are a dime a dozen, and this is my attempt at something different._

**The Cripple Code**

The patient in Exam Room 2 was a young man perched on the exam table, legs dangling just above his parked wheelchair. This was the last patient he would see today, Dr. House had decided; he was going home, ordering some take-out and camping out on the couch for the season finale of The Bachelor (which was _just_ trashy enough to keep his interest.) The wheelchair threw him a little when he first opened the door.

_You'd think someone confined to a chair might be assed to actually spring for medical insurance instead of soliciting free clinics. _

But _why_ the chair? House silently bet himself ten dollars he could figure it out in the next three minutes. It couldn't be an SCI and there were no signs of any sort of temporary injury. Not MS; he was probably too young—maybe 19? 20?—for it to be that advanced. But that was close

"I'm Dr. House," he said, when he realized he'd been staring. "And you are…" House flipped open the file.

"You can call me Chase," the kid said hurriedly, before House could read off his name. House looked up for a second, but didn't otherwise acknowledge that Chase had spoken. He could diagnose, treat, and be out by lunch if he skipped the small talk.

"You burned yourself," House read. Chase held up his left hand, which was wrapped in what looked like a dishtowel.

"Yeah. I think it only blistered a little, but it really hurts." Chase's words were spoken carefully and clearly, but House recognized his accent as Australian and…maybe something else there?

"What happened?" House asked absently, rolling his chair over to the cabinets to dig through various medical samples. He picked up a numbing cream and some antibacterial gel then wheeled his way back to the exam table. Chase held out the hand obediently.

"Spilled some hot water." He winced as House unwound the dishtowel, and discarded a plastic bag of water which had probably been ice sometime in the past. "Making coffee."

"Well, that was dumb. Making coffee, I mean. When there's a Starbucks on every corner."

Chase smiled. Muscle control seemed fine in the arms and upper torso, House noted, uncurling Chase's fingers to inspect the burn. He almost had it…time to stall.

"So are you a long way from home? Came all the way to America for our amazing health care?" Chase looked a bit perplexed, so House added, "Your accent."

"I don't have an accent," Chase protested.

"I don't have an accent," House mocked back, pushing the "a" from the back of his throat—channeling less Chase and more The Crocodile Hunter. Chase rolled his eyes.

"I know. Damn Yankees, aren't we?"

"I'm not—" Chase started, but interrupted his own sentence with a sound of discomfort as House squeezed some disinfectant onto his palm.

"This will sting," House said.

"Thanks for the warning."

"Wait!" House barked, sharply enough to freeze Chase in place as House lifted an accusing finger. "You came in a wheel chair but could still get up on the table. Your spine is ever so slightly curved—either very minor scoliosis, or you had surgery to correct it—I'm betting the latter. And lastly, your speech is slightly halted because you're trying too hard."

Chase looked initially taken aback, but he recovered quickly. "Damn, and I thought I was trying just hard enough."

"You're good, but you're not that good. You have Friedreich's Ataxia."

"And I've also got a nasty burn. Wait, which one of those is treatable again?"

"Oh don't be a smartass; you're ruining my moment."

"You could have read my file."

"_Again_, you're a buzz kill."

"Um," Chase was biting his lip and House couldn't tell if he was annoyed or not—not that he particularly cared. "I wasn't aware this was a game for you."

"It's all a game for me. Now hold still so I can put this stuff on and wrap your hand up in something more sanitary."

"You don't have any friends, do you?" Chase muttered.

"A great guy like me?" House asked. Then added, "I have one."

"What's wrong with your leg anyway?"

House stopped wrapping the gauze and narrowed his eyes at the patient.

"What about the cripple code, man? We're not supposed to stare at each other."

"You started it—"

Chase was cut off by the door swinging open.

"You paged me?" Dr. Wilson stuck his head in the room.

"I paged you like an hour ago. If you'd actually showed up then I wouldn't even have to be here. What took you so long?" House whined.

"Unlike some doctors working here, I actually feel I should do my job instead of playing phone tag with my friends."

"What if it had been urgent?"

"WILSON BUY LUNCH?' Somehow I thought it could wait."

House opted to change the subject. "Dr. Wilson, this is Chase. He has Friedreich's Ataxia which means he's probably going to die before he makes it to age twenty-five. Cool, huh?"

"House!"

"Oh don't get your panties in a bunch; he knows the prognosis. In the meantime he can still zip around in a wheelchair, so you could take him clubbing if you really wanted to."

"Sometimes I can even get around with a cane," Chase added—playing it cool all right, but House noticed he was slightly flustered.

"I'm sorry," Wilson said, turning to Chase, "If you need a follow-up appointment, there are plenty of other doctors you can see—"

"But he likes me," House interrupted, "Don't you, Chase?"

"Well he knows your name at least." Wilson nodded to Chase. "That's a huge step for House."

"Solidarity!" House announced, grabbing his cane and beating it against the cheap linoleum. "Two legs bad, no legs good!" He half expected Wilson to point out the five things wrong with that statement, but Wilson just scratched the back of his neck and looked intently past him to a poster about the dangers of HPV.

House seized the moment of silence to tape up Chase's bandage and rattle off some routine spiel about preventing infection and coming back in a few days.

"Make an appointment with Brenda at the desk," said Wilson, standing with a hand on the doorknob. "The chances that you'll get Dr. House again are fairly slim. He wouldn't even be here if his boss didn't threaten to fire him this morning… "

"It's okay," Chase called after Wilson, "I do like him."

Before the door swung shut again, House pulled the smuggest face he could muster and shouted, "_See?_"

The strange part, House realized, looking back at Chase—his mismatched shirt and pants, the earnest look on his face as he tucked his bandaged hand against his body—was that House hadn't expected that himself.

- - -

"The new nurse in peds," House said. Wilson squinted and twisted his mouth to the side, settling back against the couch to take a swig of his drink.

"She's okay," he said finally.

"Okay! I sure wouldn't kick her out of bed for eating crackers."

Wilson's laugh sounded strained. "All right, uh…what about Diane from the cafeteria?"

"The lunch lady?!"

"You know there's this whole 'lunch lady' stereotype that just isn't fair—it's not like Diane is some two-hundred pound spinster with a gland problem…" Wilson shook his head. "She's nice, and she's not bad looking."

"Huge knockers," House conceded. "I'm surprised she hasn't dipped them in the egg salad yet."

Wilson sighed dramatically. "Fine. You go."

House squeezed his eyes shut in imitation of deep thought. "The kid from the clinic today."

"What kid? And 'kid' better be a relative term, or I'm calling a foul…"

"You know," House said, clinking the ice cubes around in his glass. "Wheelchair boy. From the land down under."

Wilson's mouth opened and closed. "You're serious? Is this some kind of twisted psychological test, looking for…oh, I don't know, some latent homosexuality that will explain my divorces?"

"Are you calling a foul?" asked House, batting his eyelashes.

"I'm calling bullshit. If you were interested in…him at all, it was only in the ataxia."

"If there was a god, and he really _was_ opposed to sodomy, he would never make a boy look like that."

"Unbelievable. So you've moved on from hookers and now you're picking up crippled kids in the clinic?"

House feigned indignation. "He's not 'crippled,' you fascist—he's differently-abled."

"He's half your age!"

"So?" House paused to wiggle his eyebrows. "I offered him a prostate exam and his eyes lit up like it was Christmas."

"I can't believe we're even talking about this!" Wilson looked ready to grab the couch cushions and hold them against his ears, which House silently filed away as a personal victory. Wilson cracked him up sometimes.

"Anyway," House said, "He likes _me._ He said so."

"Do you think he meant…oh, I don't know—as a _doctor_?"

"Does anyone like me as a doctor?"

Wilson tilted his head to the side. "Point taken. But still. Seriously?"

"Hm…do you think he can still fuck?"

"Jesus, House!"—Wilson was on his feet—"Was he even eighteen?"

"Twenty. Born in Australia, green card, lives with his aunt and mother in the city. Mom's a drinker, dad was too, before he left."

"He told you this?"

"It's in his file."

Wilson held up his hands. "Let me get this straight…you actually read the file of a _clinic_ patient?"

"And brought it home. You wanna see?"

"You're still messing with me. You only pulled that file because you think Friedreich's ataxia is interesting and you're not really interested in…uh…"

"Chase." That deflated Wilson, just enough for House to notice. He bit back a smirk, opting for the more condescending: "But you're probably right."

Wilson looked weary as he sank back in his place on the sofa. "It's doubtful you'll see him again anyway, you know. Even if he does come back."

"He'll come back," House said. He glanced at the mantel clock and yawned, propping his feet on the coffee table beside his empty glass. "He likes me, remember?"

- - -

Thursday afternoon at exactly two o'clock, Wilson—still reeling a bit from the (expected, but still) death of one of his younger patients—stumbled into Exam Room One to find that House was right.

There was House, sitting backwards in a chair, which put him eye-level with the young man he'd so bluntly introduced into the game of Who Would You Screw two nights prior. Chase, was it? Wilson wished he hadn't remembered.

"Jimmy!" House called amiably, "We were wondering when you'd decide to show up." Chase half-waved.

"I'm on time, and—" Wilson fixed House with an accusing finger—"You're not even scheduled for the clinic today."

House shrugged. "I slipped Brenda a 50 if she'd page me when Chase showed up. Hmm…do you think Cuddy is stiffing the nurses again?" Wilson ignored the question. "Do we need to talk?"

"It's okay," said Chase, "my mom had to drop me off early and"—his gaze shifted to House, who was of course, grinning like the Cheshire Cat— "Dr. House was just keeping me company."

"What—" Wilson sputtered, "Have I stumbled into some sort of parallel universe where people _enjoy_ spending time with House?"

"You know, there are masochists out there other than you," House said.

"He isn't being a jerk to you?" Wilson asked Chase, who shrugged.

"I'm fairly used to it. If you knew my family, you'd understand."

"I'm trying to deduce who wronged him," House mock whispered behind his hand. "Mommy or daddy?"

Wilson couldn't help but shake his head and silently pray that House had _not_ been serious regarding what he said about Chase before. House wasn't exactly an open book, but Wilson thought he'd be able to gauge House's bullshit after being his friend for nearly ten freaking years. This he knew though: House was either serious, or attempting to drive him crazy.

If it was the latter, it was almost working. Wilson, with House's descriptions of Chase's uh…physical appearance still ringing in his ears, was trying his hardest to not look at Chase while…looking at Chase. The curve in his spine, which House had briefly mentioned, was barely noticeable beneath his sweater and he sat up straight in the chair with his fingers resting on the wheels. Wilson turned to Chase's chart and away from his face, determined not to notice anything else House had mentioned.

"So after you rewrap his hand and give him a lollipop, can I have him next?" House asked.

"I have agency, you know," Chase said.

"Shhp, quiet. The doctors are talking. Wilson?"

"Do you really need my permission?" Wilson asked. He wiped at his brow. "In fact, why don't you deal with the bandage yourself so you two can continue um…whatever you're doing?"

"Because I'm not on duty right now. Duh."

"This is unbelievable," Wilson said to no one in particular, and stepped back out the door.

House, of course, followed him.

"Are you still thinking of what I said two nights ago?" House called after him. Wilson had no choice but to turn around again, lest House decided to yell something more incriminating.

"No," Wilson lied, "I just don't know what to think of you actually connecting with a patient."

"Look," said House, "I just want to…see what he can do. Mobility wise, I mean. I'm curious."

"You're curious," Wilson said flatly.

"Yes."

"House, he's a human being, not a guinea pig."

Then, in a tone that was definitely teasing and almost dirty, House asked, "Don't you think I _know_ that?"

- - -

House _was_ messing with Wilson. A little. He'd have liked to believe that messing with Wilson was his only objective here. Wilson, as he'd long suspected, became flustered the minute House brought the notion of a new, gay attraction to the table, no matter how serious any of it was, and this was unspeakably satisfying.

But Chase (other name forgotten by now) _had_ actually peaked House's interest; otherwise, why bring him up in the first place? A lot of it was about the ataxia—really, a young man with a shrinking future who seems completely unaffected by that? Completely resigned to using a wheel chair, proud enough to never mention it, but not _too_ proud to forsake the chair for a less obvious but more trying means of getting around?

(House almost laughed at that thought; what, was a cane less obvious now?)

In some way or another, Chase _had_ to be affected—it was a degenerative disease for Christ's sake!—and House felt a gravitational need to find out how. He really was curious.

But it didn't really end there, House thought, annoyed. Maybe he'd damned himself by spouting all that crap to Wilson—if there was a God, and he made boys look like that etc. etc…

Maybe House had become so good at convincing others, that he actually convinced himself. So he was thinking that, yes, maybe Chase was especially pretty for his gender. And thinking that maybe if Chase were a girl, he would be some disposable floozy—cute, but ultimately not worth it—and maybe he was _anyway_ if you discount the damn wheel chair and the grim future prognosis. But even House couldn't do that.

God_damn_ if he was feeling anything like pity; what a stupid, useless emotion.

But their last encounter had ended so…dramatically.

House's introduction to Chase's mother was this: A tiny blonde woman, screaming at the nurses in the clinic, shaking her finger at Brenda and demanding to know what the hell was taking so long, she was _supposed to_ pick her son up thirty minutes ago—she had things to do, people to see!

All this, they heard through the door, left slightly ajar after House's confrontation with Wilson in the hallway. Chase looked embarrassed. Wilson got up, no doubt to try and fix things.

"No, it's okay," Chase said quickly. His hands moved to his wheels. "She's right, we need to leave."

"You okay with that bandage?" Wilson asked, eyeing the wad of gauze that had to make mobility at least a little more difficult.

Chase shook his head. "Fine. Thanks."

"There you are," his mother had said, in much the same tone she had used on Brenda. She grabbed the back of her son's wheelchair and turned him roughly towards the door.

House looked at Wilson.

"Uh, wait!" Wilson called. He lifted a clipboard in the air and started after the pair. "You have to sign this!"

House shook his head, watching Wilson attempting to finish up with Chase while keeping one eye on Chase's mother, who had crossed her arms and was tapping a foot in annoyance. Pity, again: stupid, useless emotion.

_At least this story was over_, he thought, though he probably knew even then—somewhere, in the back of his mind—that that wasn't true.

- - -

"I'm in some trouble and I didn't know who else to call," Chase's voice said, across a wave of cell phone static. "Your friend gave me your number."

"You've fallen and you can't get up?" House guessed, wondering why the hell he'd bothered to pick up the phone. It was almost nine o'clock and his ass was firmly planted to the sofa, where he was determined to keep it.

"No, no, I…my mum kicked me out."

"What?"

"I'm, I'm sitting on the curb outside the apartment. I don't have anywhere to go and…I could really use a favor." When House said nothing, he'd added, "I'd owe you."

House didn't bother holding back a sigh. "Where are you?"

"Up on North Holt, by the big apartment building."

"At least it's close," House muttered. "Don't move."

He hung up before Chase could respond.

Chase was waiting where he'd said he'd be, under a street light in front of the apartments and sitting—more literally than House had expected—on the curb.

"Where's your chair?" House asked through a rolled down window.

Chase sat up straight with his fists behind him, eyes wide and flashing in the headlights. He seemed to quickly compose himself. "Didn't think Mum was going to let me go back and get it."

"Let me get this straight"—House swung open the door—"She kicked you out _without_ your wheelchair?"

Chase broke eye contact. "She's pretty drunk. She probably won't even remember in the morning. But I can't go back tonight."

"Well come on then, get in the car."

Chase smirked. "Can I get a hand up?"

Wordlessly House stuck his cane out the car door. Chase grabbed the end and pulled himself up, stumbling up against the back door. "Do you mind if I…?" he asked, hand on the door handle.

"Sure, I'll play chauffeur," said House. Chase tumbled into the back seat. "What were you planning on doing anyway, if I'd said no? Sit there all night?"

Chase shrugged. House moved the rearview mirror to get a better look at him.

"Well, you can crash on my couch, I suppose," House said hesitantly. He cursed himself for not thinking this out in advance—of course, if he picked Chase up, the kid would need a place to stay. He quickly contemplated calling Wilson, but his wife probably wouldn't agree with Wilson dragging a strange boy home. "As long as you don't steal anything," he added for good measure.

"Thank you. I really owe you. I'll…" Chase trailed off, and House recognized that awkward realization that they didn't know each other well enough for Chase to come up with a counter-favor. "Thanks."

House rolled his eyes and adjusted the rear view mirror to see the traffic again. If he did call Wilson, Wilson would say, "Unless you're a total bastard, you'll take him in."

And House would say, "What makes you think I'm _not_ a total bastard?" just as he proved he wasn't by pulling the car away from the curb and taking Chase—wheel-chair boy, with the accent, and the terrible home life—home with him.

_Pity._ How ridiculous.

Chase was explaining how he and his mother had to move to the states, where her sister was living, because after his father left, they didn't have enough money to keep the house. House was only half listening.

"You know, some people have nice stories, with family picnics and potato salad," House said, over him. "Just no one in this car."

He could feel Chase looking at him blankly. He didn't feel the need to explain himself, or his references.

- - -

It took maybe ten minutes between Chase walking through the door and House persuading him to take his shirt off so he could poke at the surgical scars on Chase's back.

Sure, scars were always interesting, but he was _way more _interested in how long it would take for Chase to get annoyed enough with the guinea pig treatment to tell him to sod off. House had almost exhausted all the questions he could ask that seemed medically relevant, and was considering making some up. When was this kid going to snap?

Maybe this was the counter-favor: a long suffering patience. But House's own patience was running thin. It was amusing for the first few minutes to give Chase inane commands—stand up, sit down, let me see your back—but he seemed so eager to please that the novelty was actually wearing off.

Who made you like this? House wanted to ask, because it just didn't seem natural. Jesus.

Instead he asked, "Is your mother completely insane? Just curious."

"She's not. She just doesn't handle…stress very well. So she drinks."

"Why are you defending her? She gave you the boot!"

"She's my mother." Chase shrugged. "And she's nice, sometimes."

"When no one's looking?"

"Something like that," Chase said, but he smiled just a little.

House touched a finger to the top of the long scar, snaking down Chase's spine like a giant pink parenthese. He was trying to remember how a spinal chord looked, laid open and bare, when Chase shivered and goose bumps rose under House's fingers. And House remembered he was touching skin.

Chase met his eyes, briefly. "Sorry."

_For?_ House pulled his hand away.

"Put your shirt on," he said, because he could.

He could probably demand anything in the world, and he chose this. "You have a problem," Wilson would say, if Chase was a woman, maybe older, if the situation was something he could better condone. House shook his head, barely enough to be noticed. Chase had grabbed his tee-shirt and was pulling it over his head.

"Wait," House said.

"What?" said Chase, through the tee-shirt.

House reached out again, to touch a smaller scar along Chase's side, below his ribs. An angry little slice, thick and short. Chase freed his head from the shirt and turned back to House.

"What's this one?" House asked. His palm was almost pressed to Chase's side; he could almost feel him breathing.

"I fell off my bike. When I was younger."

House wondered if he was disappointed, if he was hoping for something more grimmer.

"What about yours?" Chase asked.

"What?"

"Your leg. You have a scar?"

"Is this a clever ploy to get my pants off?" House asked, but the words felt strangely flat in his mouth. He cleared his throat. "Don't count on it. This isn't a 'show me yours I'll show you mine.'"

"Right. It's all purely medical." Chase yanked his shirt down over his shoulders, scars and pale skin disappearing. House tried to look uninterested. Chase smiled like a goddamn imp.

"You're leaving, first thing in the morning," House said, reaching for his cane and rising to his feet. "And I'm going to bed."

"Sweet dreams," said Chase.

House barely looked at him. He walked out of the room. Then he walked back.

_This is for you, Jimmy_, he thought in some foolish juvenile way

as he pinned Chase down to the couch

hoping that no one with two functional legs would ever have to see what happened next.

_It will make for a good story tomorrow._

With Chase sprawled across his legs, House asked, "Are you afraid of death?"

"No, of life," Chase answered, and yanked loose the buttons on his pants so the denim gaped open like a wound.

- - -

tbc…


	2. Chapter 2

There was something House was dying to tell him. Wilson knew this almost immediately from the strangely cheerful humming, the sideways smiles, and that strange little glint in House's eye that he had learned (from experience) meant something was up.

But Wilson wasn't sure it was something he actually wanted to know.

Pointedly ignoring House's secretive smirk, Wilson asked, "Want to go out for lunch today?"

"Can't. I've got someone at home."

"Oh no," Wilson said, almost a reflex. He'd asked the wrong question.

House grinned. "Remember our little Aussie friend from the clinic?" He swung his legs off the desk while Wilson absorbed the full implications of that sentence.

House laughed. "Boy, you should have seen the color drain from your face!"

"Are you messing with me?" Wilson demanded.

"Now why would I do a thing like that?"

Wilson's hands went up like House had pulled a gun. "I don't believe this. I know you said…but…"

"Oh, relax. He came to me. And you're the one who gave him my number."

"He said that?" Wilson asked, temporarily distracted from his moral outrage.

"Well, he said 'your friend' but I don't know who else he could have meant."

"Why would I give him your number? He probably got it from Cuddy or…but that doesn't matter! He's still at your place?"

"His mummy kicked him out."

Wilson sighed, bringing his hands back down to his pockets. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. And get this. She left him chair-less." House lifted a hand to point at Wilson. "See, I'm not really the antagonist here."

"But…House. You can't just keep him, like he's a puppy or a kitten or—"

"Oh, a puppy, definitely a puppy."

Wilson squeezed his eyes closed. "House, I'm serious."

"I know, and it makes things so _boring_." House leaned back in his chair and plucked a bottle of Vicodin from his desk. Unscrewing the safety cap, he added, "Anyway, he's going home today. Seemed to think Mom'd calm down after she sobered up."

"Oh, wonderful," Wilson said. He hadn't yet heard _that_ part of the story.

"Yeah. I'm giving him a lift back to the hospital so he can pick up a loaner chair and get back to his miserable life. Sound good to you?"

"Okay, I get it. You're a saint for helping him."

"Exactly." House popped a Vicodin into his mouth.

"Why didn't you just bring him in with you this morning?"

"And wake him up? He just looked so _adorable_ drooling on my pillow…" House batted his lashes.

Wilson shook his head.

"House. Last night…did anything happen?" He almost hated himself for asking.

House's eyes were suddenly hard and unreadable. "Do you really want me to answer that?"

"No. I guess I don't."

"See ya, Wilson."

"Yeah." Wilson said, turning towards the door. "Yeah, later."

- - -

After an uneventful lunch in the downstairs cafeteria, Wilson was back to business, picking up some paperwork from the financial department and returning to his office juggling files and a cup of coffee.

As Wilson nudged open his office door and realized he wasn't alone, a file slipped out of his hand and hit the floor with a loud 'thwap.'

"Sorry," said Chase, leaning gracefully out of his (loaner?) wheelchair to scoop Wilson's papers back up. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"I don't think you're supposed to be in here," Wilson said, in what he hoped was not an unkind tone. He took the papers from Chase's outstretched hand.

"Yeah, I'm really sorry. I just…wanted to talk to you."

"It's about House, isn't it?"

Chase rubbed at a shoulder in what looked like a self conscious gesture. "Yeah. Do you have a minute?"

"Barely," Wilson replied, glancing at his watch, "I have a patient follow-up and I need to drop off some files at the nurse's station."

"I don't mind waiting." Chase picked a piece of lint off of his tee-shirt and Wilson realized why the shirt had looked so familiar: it was House's. Wilson could almost feel a headache beginning to form right behind his eyes and he reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"Are you okay?" Chase asked.

Wilson glanced down at him. "Fine. Don't you think you'd be…um, more comfortable in the waiting room? I'll be finished in an hour or so."

"Um." Chase pressed his lips together. "I'd rather not run into Dr. House…not right now, anyway."

That rose a warning flag, but Wilson really didn't time to ask why. Instead he just nodded. "Okay. You can wait here."

"Do you mind if I check my e-mail?" Chase asked.

"Oh, no…go ahead." Wilson reached over to push the power button on the monitor. "Password's in the bottom drawer on a memo pad."

"Thank you. I really appreciate it."

Wilson nodded again, hand on the doorknob. "I understand. It's fine."

Wilson was a good listener. Or so he'd been told. People were always talking to him about their problems—interns, nurses, even strangers on buses. And yes, he'd play therapist, but mostly to satisfy his own curiosity. In this case, per what really had happened with House and the kid (_Chase_, he reminded himself) because the thought of listening to House's version of events made Wilson slightly queasy. He knew House, but he didn't trust him as far as he could throw him and it might be nice to listen to someone else's side of the story for a change—someone else who didn't delight in torturing him.

Wilson squeezed the thought from his head, knocked briskly on the exam room door, then pasted on a smile that said, _you, dear patient, are my number one priority_.

"Hi, Connie," he said, smile now focused, on the small woman reading a magazine in the corner chair. "How have you been feeling?"

- - -

"So," Wilson said, sliding into the chair behind his desk.

"So…" said Chase.

"There was something you wanted to talk about?"

"Yes. God, I…" Chase bit his lips together. "I screwed up."

Wilson's stomach sank a few stories. "So something did…happen? With you and—"

"Yes."

"—House."

"Yes, we fucked."

Even if Wilson had been expecting a similar response, he was glad he was sitting down. He gripped the edge of his desk for extra support.

"In relative terms," Chase added, like it made a difference.

"Oh," Wilson managed to choke out. "Okay. Why are you telling me?"

Chase folded his arms against his body. "He's your friend and…he's interesting. I like him."

"Interesting is one word for it," Wilson said, hoping that he looked less shell-shocked than he felt. He went to lean his elbow on the desk and nearly missed. "Where are you going with this?"

"He just seems like…" Chase paused. "Like he doesn't let people in. Of course, I mean. But I was hoping you could tell me maybe…

"Wait." Wilson barely resisted pinching himself. "You're asking me for _relationship advice?_ About _House?"_

Chase laughed a little too loudly. Nervously. "Umm, in a matter of speaking I guess. This is pretty messed up isn't it?"

_Yes,_ Wilson wanted to say, so he said nothing.

"Does…this kind of thing happen with him a lot?"

"What kind of thing?" Wilson asked. _Sleeping with patients? Men?_

"He's been really nice to me," Chase blurted.

"That almost doesn't sound like him."

"I know." Chase ran a hand through his hair, eyes evading Wilson. "I just…wanted him to like me. I guess. But then I had to go and…I don't know why I did that."

"You mean, why you…"

"Yeah."

"You like House, but you're not…attracted to him?" Wilson asked carefully. He was trying his best to keep up with what was quickly becoming House's biggest mess of the year, but it was all strangely foreign when dumped on his lap like this.

Chase had buried his face in his hands and was shaking his head. "I always do this. I see a man with a cane and think 'he'll understand' but then I…Jesus. I'm sorry, this is pathetic."

Wilson couldn't tell if Chase was crying or cursing, but he nudged the Kleenex box towards him just in case.

"Chase…" _Put a hand on his shoulder or not?_ Wilson wondered. Why was this suddenly so much harder than telling a patient she was dying?

Chase was biting his thumb, staring intently at something that wasn't Wilson. "It's like this reflex. God, any kind of attention and…I don't even know what to do with myself. Since I was thirteen…"

"Thirteen?" Wilson balked.

Chase frowned through his fingers. "After my dad left…Mum's boyfriend. Wasn't really my idea."

For a brief second Wilson thought he might throw up, like that whole thing just slammed into his stomach, but then the feeling passed, replaced by an urgent _what has House gotten into?!_

"When you're such a sympathy case…no one notices things like…the way you look. House did."

_Because he's a dirty old man!_ Wilson wanted to shout, like loyalty to one's friend should only go so far. But in reality of course, it went much farther than it should. He shook his head in an attempt to clear his mind. Chase was saying something.

"What?"

"I said, do you think he'll actually want to see me again?"

Wilson pressed his lips together. "Yes. He probably will."

Chase looked relieved. "Okay."

"Do you think maybe you should talk to…someone else?" Wilson asked. "Like a therapist? It seems like you have a lot going on and…I could get you an appointment."

"Yeah, they'd have a field day with me, I'm sure." Chase waved it away. "I'm fine."

Wilson was skeptical.

"Really, I've done the whole confront your demons, make peace with death thing," said Chase. "Wasn't worth it. Life is just one tragedy after another. Why should death be any different?"

"That's a…bit of a jaded take on things." Wilson cocked his head to the side. "House would approve."

Chase smiled a little, but his lip quivered. "I've only got my own experience to go on."

"Life has been throwing you a few curve balls," Wilson said, trying not to look at Chase's wheelchair. "But House is being a pessimist about your prognosis. You have years ahead of you, and there could be medical break-throughs that—"

"No," Chase interrupted, "I mean, I don't even think about it."

Wilson was skeptical, again.

"You're not going to tell House we talked?" Chase asked.

"Uh, no…" That sounded utterly unconvincing, but Chase didn't seem to pick up on it.

"Thank you," Chase said, "I feel better now, really."

Wilson held out his hands in mild exasperation. "Sure." He didn't understand any of this anymore. Chase moved towards the door and Wilson hopped up to open it for him. "Just take care of yourself, okay"

Chase lifted his hand in a mock salute. "Yep."

- - -

When House said, "What's up?" Wilson muttered, "Nothing," and kept on walking down the hall, as if he had some place to be.

- - -

House was loathe to admit that he needed anyone, but tormenting Wilson _was _what got him through the day when he didn't have any cases. And Wilson had been a lot less fun lately; staring off into space like a daydreaming teenager then jumping every time House tried to snap him out of it did not an engaging conversation make.

"Problems with the wife?" House asked. "Financial trouble, maybe? IRS after your assets?"

"What?" said Wilson, "Oh, no. I guess I've just been tired lately. Lots of patients."

House flicked up a balled up piece of paper across his desk and hit Wilson square in the necktie. "I suppose no one would want your assets anyway."

"I guess not."

"You guess not? Not even a glare? An eye roll?"

Wilson gave that eye roll a try. House sighed noisily and leaned back in his chair.

"I know," he said, "You're having an affair."

"What?! No I'm not."

"Yes, you are. In fact…I'll bet you're banging one of your patients. Maybe an Australian with mobility problems and a pretty mouth?" He paused to tap a finger against his lips. "Oh no, wait. No, that's me."

Wilson shut his eyes. "And are you still um…seeing him?"

"Well, he is fairly adept with that mouth..."

"House." Wilson brought a hand to the back of his neck. House noted he was pointedly looking away. "Do you really want to share this?"

"Well, considering it's the only tail either of us has gotten in some time, I thought you might—"

"House!"

"Jesus Christ, what's gotten into you?" House shook his head. "You're married—no one expects you to be getting any anyway."

"It's not that," Wilson said sharply. He held a hand out, palm up against the desk. "It's…there's something I should tell you. About Chase."

"What about Chase?"

"You've been uh…spending a lot of time with him lately?"

"I saw him last night. Get to the point."

"Did he mention that he'd talked to me?"

House narrowed his eyes. "You mean, outside the whole doctor-patient thing?"

"Yes."

"No."

"Well, he did. He just showed up in my office and…told me some things. Things you should probably know."

"He has herpes?" House asked innocently.

Wilson looked disgusted. "_No._ It's just…maybe you should take it easy. It seems like he's had a lot of problems with his family…"

"Yes, I know his life is _very_ hard." House waved a hand in a circle, the universal sign for _get on with it already_.

"Are you even listening to me?" Wilson demanded, like House had hit a nerve. It had been a fair while since House had seen him so riled up. "I'm trying to tell you something important!"

"I'd be listening if you actually had something to say."

"Fine," Wilson spat. "You want the point? He's fucked up. He's more fucked up than you are. He can't relate to anyone anyway outside of sex because some guy his mom was seeing started _raping_ him when he was thirteen. House, the kid needs _therapy_, not some man twice his age looking for an easy lay."

Through the cloud Wilson's moral outrage and the slap of the word rape, House noticed something else. Nearly stunned to silence, he drew his hands together in front of his face. Something was off. Something was off the whole time, and it was only now starting to make sense. Wilson was waiting, holding his breath.

"He told you that?" House asked quietly.

"Yes. He did."

"When he was thirteen. And this was after his father left?"

"Yeah. Probably part of the reason he hates him so much."

House said nothing, bowing his head towards the desk. The office air was still and cool and he could barely hear the orderlies' sneakers in the hallway. He closed his eyes. "Interesting."

Wilson made a sharp noise between a cry and a laugh. "House? What were you thinking, anyway? Throw him on the couch now, ask questions later?"

"Wilson, shut up."

The coolness of House's tone stopped Wilson's rant in its tracks, and he settled inside to bolt up from his chair and pace a line in front of the desk. House squeezed his hands together and tried to ignore the pacing.

It hit like a freight train.

"He told me," House said, very slowly, very carefully, "That his father left when he was _fifteen_. Now to me, that doesn't seem like a mistake someone would make. Unless they were lying."

Wilson's face contorted in confusion. "Then…what? Why?"

"Take out your wallet," House ordered, and in a sudden blur of motion produced his own from his pocket. Wilson followed suit without hesitation.

"What about it?" he asked, holding the black billfold between his fingers.

"Is your bank card missing?" House asked.

"What? No…"

"Mine is," said House, already on his feet and heading towards the door.

_Little bit of a cliffhanger there? Stay tuned! As always, I really appreciate feedback. It's rather my motivation :)_


	3. Chapter 3

House decided to keep his voice low and even, _natural_ he hoped. His call skipped straight to voice-mail, which was unsurprising. Chase may have had good reason to screen his calls.

"Chase? It's me. Back early from clinic duty…you should give me a call."

House hung up, then squeezed his phone extra tight in his fist. His throat felt extremely dry and he wondered if he could spare a few minutes to swing by a bar for some sort of stiff drink. The phone's plastic casing made a cracking noise so he dropped it onto the passenger seat next to him and put his hands back on the wheel.

He'd been played.

House started the car and backed out of his handicap parking space without even checking his mirrors.

Everything fell together, right on top of him—all the mystery and intrigue about Chase, about this lame foreign kid with the innocent face…fuck. He'd seen something coming, but he wasn't expecting this.

But it wasn't over—yet. That thought was a little bit soothing.

- - -

"Open up," House called, beating a fast tempo against the apartment door with the handle of his cane. "I know you're in there."

There had been music leaking through the door; something unremarkable that House found boring and irritating, but after almost a full minute of relentless tapping, it stopped and he heard the telltale sound of footsteps in the entryway, followed by the sound of a chain being removed. Then a frazzled looking woman was standing barefoot in the doorway.

"Can I _help_ you?" she asked, like she'd just done House the biggest favor in the world. Her accent was muted—Australian, sure, but dulled by several years in the states. He squinted at her face and dirty blonde curls, noting the shape of her nose, the curl of her lips.

"Is your sister home?" he asked.

The woman rolled her eyes and turned to look over her shoulder. "Barb! Some guy here to see you!" When there was no response, she turned back to House. "She'll be a minute."

He was not invited in. But before he could raise a complaint on the modern absence of etiquette, the woman was gone, and Chase's mother—memorable if only because despite her current scowl, she was uncommonly pretty—was standing in her place. When she saw House, her eyes widened and she took a step back inside the apartment.

"Hi," said House, blocking the door with a foot just in case. "I don't think we've been properly introduced, 'Barb.' I'm your son's doctor."

"And what are you doing here?" she asked. She shifted her weight from her heels to her toes, as if she was ready to lunge forward and bolt.

"I need to talk to you and your son," said House.

"Well he isn't home. He won't be back until later."

"It's a rather important matter."

"I can take a message."

"Mmm, no, that isn't really going to work for me." By now House had wedged himself in the narrow space between the wall and open door, and he hoped he was looming enough (the woman was what, maybe five three?) to be a tad intimidating. Barb crossed her arms; she looked uncomfortable, maybe, but not particularly fearful.

"I can call him," she said, "But you're going to have to wait outside."

House caught a flicker of movement behind her, which he quickly identified as an eavesdropping sister.

"But I need to sit down," he said, rather loudly, "It's my leg. Can't stand up for too long. You know how it is."

"No," said Barb, "I don't."

"Oh let him in," called a voice from the apartment. "He can wait on the couch."

"I wouldn't want to impose!" House shouted back.

"It's fine!" said the voice.

Barb twisted her lips in disgust, but yanked the door open and gestured House inside. "What's the problem with my son anyway?"

"I have reason to believe he's in some kind of trouble," House said, gliding past and leaving Barb to shut the door behind him.

Ten minutes later he was sitting with Barb on the couch. Barb's sister had proven herself to be a rather charming character, introducing herself as Danielle and offering him milk and coffee cake, which he was too _polite_ to decline.

Barb was perched at the far end of the couch biting her nails, ankles neatly crossed like a queen. She looked almost too young to be Chase's mother, but the lines around her mouth gave her away her age. Grinding her teeth against her thumbnail, she stared out a window as if the cement wall it faced was utterly captivating.

"I called him," she said flatly. "He said he was coming."

"Where was he?" House asked.

"Why the hell would I know?" When House raised his eyebrows, she added, "Look, just cause he's got this…_thing_ doesn't mean he can't get around like everybody else.

"It's called Friedreich's Ataxia," said House, "Nasty stuff."

"I _know _what it's called."

"Just making sure."

Barb made a sound of disgust. "He's my son, don't you think—"

She stopped midsentence and leaned forward on her hands.

"Don't I think what?" House asked, but Barb ignored him and sprang to her feet.

"I think that's him," she said.

"I didn't hear anything," House started to say, but she was already running down the hall to the door. House cursed the dilapidated sofa that had sucked him into its cushions as he struggled to his feet and limped after her. Even before he managed to get down the hall and open the door, he could tell through the window there was already some sort of argument flaring between Barb and Chase. _Who'd finally decided to roll up, it seemed._

When House opened the door, Chase was holding his head in his hands as his mother gestured wildly—her accent, House noted, which had seemed muted like her sister's, had come out to play with some flourish. He wasn't even sure what she was saying, though it struck him as some form of abbreviated cursing.

"Hello," he said loudly. They both turned to look at him; Barb's tirade cut short at the word.

"Dr. House?" Chase asked. His eyes were the size of dinner plates. "What's going on?"

"Would it be cliché of me to say, _that's what I'd like to know_?"

"Oh dear," came Danielle's voice from the doorway. "Shall I shut this then, and leave you all alone?"

"Yes," said Barb, but her eyes stayed trained on House.

The door swung shut.

"Charming home you have there," said House.

"Shut up."

"No, really, I mean it," House continued, "I like what you've done with the place; real model of lower middle class living. Of course, there's that pesky 'lower' to worry about, which means no big-screen TVs or high end stereo systems—"

"Shut up, House!" Chase snapped, an echo of his mother. "Don't talk to her like that!"

"But I'm not finished," said House, "And I'm talking to you. And isn't it just human nature to want what we can't have?"

"He's gone 'round the bend," Barb said, disgusted.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," said Chase, "What are you doing here anyway?"

"Simple," said House, "I need to know what you did with my bank card."

The imminent silence made House want to reach out and shake Chase by the shoulders, or maybe the wheelchair, especially when his mouth was hanging open like a goddamn fish. Chase took his time to answer.

"Your what? Bank card?"

"ATM card!" House supplied, "Debit. Whatever you call those things in jolly old Australia?"

"Oh,_that?_ You left it on the end table by the piano." Chase practically batted his eyelashes, and House hoped to god the gesture was unconscious because seriously—too much. "You thought I took it?"

"Nice try," House said dryly, "but I think I'd remember leaving it there."

Chase let out a small huff and held his arms up in a shrug. "Don't believe me; go look. I saw it there this morning."

"He's lying." said Barb suddenly, jerking House's attention away from her son. Both House and Chase whipped around to look at her. She balled her hands into fists at her sides.

"What?" House managed. This was certainly unexpected. If anyone was going to cave, he was sure it would be Chase because his mother would either condone or encourage—

"He steals things," Barb said simply. "He's been stealing since he was a teenager, and I can tell when he's lying. And he's lying now."

"I'm not lying!" Chase protested. "She's the one who's lying!"

Before House had the chance to really consider what kind of entrapment they were attempting here, Barb pulled a hand back and slapped Chase so hard across the face that the sound made House jump.

"Don't speak to me like!" she cried. "This isn't my fault!" Then she was cursing again, spouting such rapid-fire admonitions that House was left reeling and wondering if he hadn't played this whole thing completely wrong.

Something wasn't right here. If Chase had been stealing from him, why would his mother—who could care less about what he did with his time—out him to _House_, whom she didn't even _like? _And wasn't slapping a wee bit dramatic? Chase may have played his mother off as completely insane, but as somewhat of a veteran in dealing with the mentally unstable (he'd had his fun in the psych ward), House was sure she was anything but.

The mark left on Chase's cheek was a perfectly rendered handprint. House shook his head and tried to clear his mind. There wasn't time to fuck around, and Barb was giving him a headache.

"Would you _shut up?"_ he called, loud enough to stop Barb's tirade midsentence. She dropped her hands to her sides again and turned to glare at him.

"This is bollocks," she muttered, pushing past House to the front door of the apartment. She'd shut it behind her before House had a chance to stop her.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Chase demanded, the moment his mother dissapeared. "I told you my mum was crazy!"

House's eyes lingered on the hand-print across his cheek. "If you say so."

"House, this isn't funny…" Chase swallowed and—was he actually upset now? "I told you I didn't take that card. Don't you believe me?"

"I don't believe anyone," House snapped back, "But it looks like I have reason not to trust you."

"Can we do this somewhere else? I'd rather not right here." He gestured to the apartment window. "With my mother watching."

House jerked his head towards the street. "Fine. My car's over here."

Chase looked taken aback, like getting into House's car was not what he'd been thinking. But then he nodded and said, "Fine. Let's go."

- - -

"I needed to know if you were telling the truth," House said, after limping into his apartment only to find the missing bank card exactly where Chase said it would be. Chase had (at House's request) left his wheelchair in the car and was leaning purposefully against a wall. He held up his hands in a gestue House could only read as _I told you so._

"Just because it's here now, doesn't mean you didn't take it," House pointed out, turning the little plastic card over in his hands, looking for some sort of clue that of course wasn't there. "You knew exactly where it was."

Chase threw up his hands. "You're right. I figured having a debilitating illness wasn't interesting enough so I decided to add kleptomania and compulsive lying to the list."

"Very nice." House tapped a line down the floorboards with his cane. "Using sarcasm to admit something true while making it sound completely ridiculous…"

"Pfff. You think that's true?" Chase laughed, taking the moment to slide past House and take a seat on the sofa. "I thought you didn't believe anyone."

"Well, coming from a compulsive liar—"

"I'm not a compulsive liar," Chase said firmly.

"Fine," said House, "Then tell me why you lied to Wilson."

"What?"

"In his office…he said you were telling him about…" House licked his lips, "Your past."

"And you think I lied to him?" Chase asked.

"You told us two different stories."

Tilting his head to the side, Chase offered a lazy smile. "How do you know I didn't lie to you?"

"Look," House snapped. "I'm done playing games here. So answer the damn question."

Chase stared up at House through his eyelashes. "House, you're scaring me…" House squeezed his own eyes shut; he didn't need to see that. Not now.

"Cut the shit and _answer me_," he said, pushing the tip of his cane into the couch's upholstry, right between Chase's legs. Chase jumped, drawing up against the sofa. "Or I can just call the cops."

When Chase opened his mouth to protest, House added, "While it's possible I'm wrong about the bank card, I still know that something is upPlaying innocent may suit you pretty well, but it isn't going to work this time. So why don't you tell me what's really going on?"

Chase blinked—once, twice—and then House watched his wide-eyed surprise melt away into…something else. Chase pressed his lips into a tight smile.

"Fine," he said, "You win. What did Wilson say I told him?"

House's mouth dropped open in spite of himself. "You don't even remember?"

"Just want to make sure we're on the same page."

"Well," House said, "some somber tale of how Mr. Step-daddy touched you in your naughty place. Too bad you got your facts mixed up in the end. It sounded like a pretty good story."

"Wow," Chase said, but he was clearly unimpressed. "It does. Maybe I was going for the sympathy vote. Or maybe I wanted you to feel guilty for fucking me. You seem to have it all figured out. Why don't you tell me?"

"Why don't I—" House shook his head. "What's your game anyway? Theft, extortion, or what? Kill me off and assume my identity?"

Chase licked his lips. "Do you actually want to know?"

"Well, I'm asking, aren't I?" House almost screamed, barely remembering to check his voice as he pinched the bridge of his nose and thought, _I am never having sex, never again. With anyone who's not a barely-legal celebrity. _"Why the hell _wouldn't_ I want to know?"

"Because you're not the mark anymore," Chase said quietly.

"What?"

"You're not the mark anymore. Change of plans, okay?"

In the first real (?) show of emotion since entering the apartment, Chase balled his hands into fists and pressed them against his forehead. House staggered back from the couch a few feet.

"What?" he asked. "What is it? What are you talking about?"

"I thought you were smarter than that, House," Chase said. "Maybe you are, I don't know."

"Get to the fucking point!" House roared.

"Are you even going to believe me if I do?"

Maybe it was the unexpected volume behind Chase's response, but whatever rebuttal House had been planning had escaped his mind and he was left with his jaw hanging open and his brow furrowed to the point of aching.

"Listen," said Chase, voice shaking only slightly, "There was a…a plan, okay? But there's not anymore. I swear I'm telling the truth this time; you don't have anything to worry about."

"Oh, I feel _scads_ better now."

"House, I'm not going to hurt you!" Chase made a sound between a laugh and a sob, holding up his palms like some sort of peace offering. "I like you, okay? I don't know how else I can say it."

"How do I know you're not just saying that so that I won't call the—wait. You said I'm not the mark anymore." House narrowed his eyes. "So who is?"

Chase bit his lip. "I don't want you to—"

"_Who is it_?" House demanded, then—in the way these things often went—answered his own question: "Wilson."

Chase's face gave the answer away.

"Wilson!" House repeated, "What, did he care too much? Was he just too nice to you? Did he seem like the type that was just _too nice_ not to take advantage of?"

"No, he seemed like the type to give his computer password away to a stranger," Chase snapped back, "What do you care anyone? You're so proud that you don't need people, that you don't care about anybody. So why do you give a damn about what happens to him?"

Rather than answer the question, House reached for his own. "What was the point of telling him what you did? Did you think you needed _more_ sympathy? 'Look at the poor kid who's rotting away in a wheelchair' wasn't good enough? Or did you think he'd start looking at _me_ like a sick fuck for taking advantage of you? Make him feel guilty for even knowing me?"

"Yes, it would be so much better if I always told the truth like you!"

"Better than lying to both of us—"

Chase shook his head like he couldn't believe it. "What did you want to hear? That no one touched me? Or I know—that it was my father having sex with me? Would that make you happy? It doesn't matter—you said it yourself—I'll probably be dead in a few years, so who fucking cares about what happened to me, right?"

"I might've," House snapped. "If you hadn't been so—'"

"_Look._ I didn't take your bank card—I didn't take _anything_ from you."

"And what are you trying to imply?" House shook his head. "That I—"

"No, nothing!" Chase hit the couch with a closed fist but it made a unsatisfying sound. "I'm just telling you the truth."

"Get out of here."

It must have took Chase a few seconds to process that, or maybe he hadn't heard at first. House's voice was low and he fixed Chase with a look that said, _I am deadly serious._

"Get out of here," House repeated, "and leave Wilson alone. And I won't call the police. You and your mother can run your little scam somewhere else."

Chase scowled. "And I'm supposed to trust you now."

"I don't think you have a choice." House twisted his lips into a humorless smile. "I have your chair."

Chase mirrored his smile, but House saw a twitch in his lower lip. "I guess I don't, then," he said. . "I really did like you, you know."

"Yeah," said House, "And I've got oceanfront property in Arizona. Hope mommy's not too mad when you come home empty handed."

"Fine," Chase said quietly. He pushed himself into a standing position, bracing his hand against the arm of the couch. "For what it's worth, I did lie to you. About one thing."

House let his jaw drop open in feigned shock. "Surprise of the century."

"Yeah, well." Chase grabbed the bottom of his tee shirt and yanked it up to his ribs.

"This?" he said, pointing to the familiar scar just below his ribcage. "I didn't fall off my bike. Mum got drunk and shoved me into a fence once because my father came home an hour late. That time it wasn't my fault."

House narrowed his eyes. "Why tell me that now? You think that'll make me change my mind?"

"No," said Chase, "But now you'll have to live with it too."

Later, House would remember biting back his response; _That's hardly fair._

And a voice in his head that wasn't Wilson's, and wasn't his own had said_Life isn't, remember?_

- - -

House leaned his chin against his fist and stared out at the grey, windy parking lot. A paper coffee cup appeared in front of his face and Wilson, dangling it between his fingers, stated the obvious.

"Coffee."

"You'll be owing me coffee," said House, "For the rest of your life. Or the rest of my life. One or the other."

"I've thanked you already," said Wilson, "But you should probably remember that you're the one who got us into the mess in the first place. Next time—"

"I'll think with the upstairs brain, yes." House took an experimental sip of his coffee, pleased to discover Wilson had the cream and sugar ratio down to an art.

House tried to remember when he'd stopped drinking it black.

"You got lucky," said Wilson.

"You're so ungrateful. I figured it out, just like I always do."

"This wasn't a case." Wilson shook his head. "What I don't understand is why you didn't call the police."

"Nature's already got a warrant out on this kid. No reason to beat a dead horse."

"Nice choice of words. Way to drive your point home."

House couldn't tell if Wilson was disgusted or just uncomfortable.

"He tried to scam you, Jimmy. What's this—sympathy for the devil?"

"You're right. Forgive me for being human."

House chuckled. "_You're _right, I should have just let him rob you blind afterall."

"Oh, you're hilarious. Look, what they were doing was wrong but this isn't black and white—you said it yourself! The kid was obviously being pushed around by his mother—he was hardly evil."

"Yeah, yeah, his life is one long sob story." House tried to look thoughtful. "On the bright side, he won't have to live with it for very long."

"House!"

But House had already closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, fingers laced behind his head. It didn't feel great, to say that, but when he realized why it was much, much worse. For as long as House had known him, Chase had been saying the same thing to himself.

"Are you afraid of death?"

"No, of life."

That was the only way the answer made sense.

"Do you want to go get lunch?" Wilson asked. He sounded resigned, and House figured the moralizing speech was over.

"It depends," said House. "Are you buying?"

END

_End notes:_

_So life goes on. That's the end._

_I didn't put this in my first a/n it's kind of a turn off but uh…_I don't like this_. I don't like the ending. Hate may be too strong of a word but…_

_It's been sitting in a folder, waiting to be posted and I kept putting it off. But it's just how it had to end; I must have taken a wrong turn in part two or something because _damn _what a downer._

_I know a lot of people had this story on alert…and I really hope that someone out there likes it more than I do—thanks for reading guys! I love you all! And I'll love you more, if you leave feedback :)_


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